


From Inertia

by BenevolentErrancy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hospitals, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Protests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walking among the crowd, Enjolras couldn't say what about the man caught his eye. Maybe it was because he stood as a small island of stillness in a roiling, bubbling sea of movement and energy. The man must have noticed Enjolras's eyes on him – or maybe just noticing Enjolras's own, sudden stillness – because he turned tired, sunken eyes on Enjolras and gave him a nod and a smile.<br/>No, a smirk. It grated on Enjolras's nerves, like this man knew something Enjolras didn't and found it all petty and humorous.<br/>-<br/>In Which Grantaire Is Death And People Die</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Inertia

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to cleaning this up enough to post
> 
> From a prompt on my tumblr:  
> "E/R where Grantaire is Death and Enjolras keeps having near death experiences."

Walking among the crowd, Enjolras couldn't say what about the man caught his eye. Maybe it was because he stood as a small island of stillness in a roiling, bubbling sea of movement and energy. While the afternoon had slipped away to night and the light and warmth of the day had faded, the protest had only grown in energy. What had started out as a simple march under the afternoon sun had become something tense and serious as the streetlamps had turned on and the police had started to rise as more than just a cursory presence. As riot shields started to appear and the voices turned from the energetic slogan-shouting of the afternoon to something lower and angrier, like a swarm of bees, the energy of the protest had become a bursting, barely contained thing. It made Enjolras's blood feel like it had been replaced with liquid lightning, made his words come fast and strong and vicious and _true_ , made him feel so alive and furious and thrilled to see the response they stirred in the crowd that surged around him like a wave. The first stone had not yet been thrown, and if they were lucky no violence would happen tonight, but the eyes and ears of the media was on them now. Among all this though there was one man who stood like he didn't quite fit with the thrumming rhythm of the crowd.

All things told he looked... normal. Shockingly so. He wasn't particularly tall, with broad, sloping shoulders hidden under a baggy hoodie that looked like it should be too heavy for this weather but the man didn't seem to feel the heat – no redness to his face, no sweat shining his skin or matting of his dark, curly hair.

The man must have noticed Enjolras's eyes on him – or maybe just noticing Enjolras's own, sudden stillness – because he turned tired, sunken eyes on Enjolras and gave him a nod and a smile. No, a smirk. It grated on Enjolras's nerves, like this man knew something Enjolras didn't and found it all petty and humorous. Enjolras had grown up being faced with people who had attitudes like that, and so it wasn't a surprise when he found himself spurred to confront the man rather than just walk away.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras demanded. He knew exactly how confrontational he sounded, but something about this man put him on edge and he found he needed an answer – why was he here? What compelled him to stand in a crowd of people who chafed under injustices he didn't seem to feel and who were fueled with a desire for change that this man clearly felt he was above.

The man just shrugged, still smirking at Enjolras. “Right now? Just waiting,” he said. “I'd ask what you were doing, but I heard your little speech there, Apollo. You definitely know how to spur a crowd, don't you? Very impressive.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

Another shrug, another smirk. “I've known lots of people like you, Apollo. Having impressive ideas doesn't mean shit's going to happen. Things don't change, but I suppose people like you don't either.”

Enjolras wasn't entirely sure why he _cared_ so much but he found that he did. He really did. The fact that this man could stand with these people and feel nothing for what they were doing made the fire in Enjolras's chest burn, made him want to reach out and forcefully shove some of that fire into this stranger's chest. So he did what he did best: he talked. He looked this stranger dead in the eye and spoke with all the strength and conviction he possessed, funneled the energy meant for a crowd into a single person. As he spoke though, the sounds of a scuffle from further down the street broke out and the stranger looked away, eyes snapping from Enjolras, to the distant sound of fighting, and then down to his baggy sleeve, which he pulled back to reveal a large, intricate watch that seemed to have more hands than strictly made sense.

“Well,” he drawled, “this has been fun, Apollo, but I'm now late for something.” He gave Enjolras a long, contemplative look then. “I supposed I'll probably be seeing you later this evening.”

“You're planning on staying?” Enjolras asked, actually rather surprised; he hadn't thought he'd actually managed to make the man understand.

“Sure. I can never manage to leave these things until the very, bitter end,” the man said. There was such a wistfulness in his voice that Enjolras almost called him back but the man turned then and started walking away.

Shortly after that Enjolras had no more time to think about the man, or even look for him again in the crowd, because the tension had snapped shortly after, and like a broken elastic it had snapped back on them with burning force. Enjolras was just lucky that he'd stumbled across Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel again before everything went to shit. The police hit down in full force, shields raised, tear gas canisters flying, and Enjolras was slammed between bodies, screaming the whole time, letting the conviction in him flow out like fire lighting his way through the night, guide his steps, until suddenly a shattering force slammed the back of his head and Enjolras had only the briefest impressions of spinning sky and smoke and feet and then, finally, concrete.

(He was struck also by the fleeting impression of black hair and sunken black eyes and, illogically, a sweeping black cloak reaching out to cast him in its shadow – or was it a green sweater? Enjolras found that he wasn't sure as consciousness flickered, fading into blackness and intermittent, confused dreams. He would soon forget it ever happened.)

-

“Oh, you– you're from the protest.”

Enjolras hadn't meant to call out quite as loudly as he had, not in the quiet bustle of the hospital, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac had left for the evening and Enjorlas was feeling restless. That, and there was something so startling, so unexpected, about finding this man here. It shouldn't be, not really, the protest had crumbled into what could be generously called a riot – certainly the news did – but was more realistically a bunch of scared people trying to scramble away from the charging police and burning tear gas. Enjolras had already run into other protesters who had ended up at the hospital, some looking beaten and small under the bruises and resignation, others only letting the injuries and insults fuel the righteous anger that had brought them to that protest that night. Others... weren't that lucky. Not everyone had made it off those streets that night.

So seeing the man walk out of a hospital room shouldn't be surprising. He could have very easily gotten injured if he had stayed through all of it like he'd claimed he was going to, or he could have even been visiting a friend who had been hurt, it made plenty of sense. And yet there was something about him, even here in this quiet hospital hall, that seemed so starkly out of place.

“Shit, you scared me,” the man said.

“Sorry, I just saw you and thought I'd see if you were okay. Did you end up staying?” _Did you feel the pain they're willing to cause us? Do you understand now? Do you see why this is important?_

“Yeah,” the man said. He took a moment to glance at his watch – under the same hoodie he'd been wearing the night before so he clearly hadn't even gotten home to change, though it was surprisingly free of debris – and seemed to decide he had time because he ambled up to Enjolras. “Saw the whole thing. Can't say I was surprised. That's how these things tend to end, Apollo. ...Glad to see you made it out alright though, somehow I expected you to be in the middle of everything.”

Enjolras frowned. He wasn't sure what he had expected from the man but it hadn't been _that_ , not even after his disparaging comments at the protest. Clearly Enjolras was more the fool for thinking to feel a sort of kinship with this man; it took more than existing in the same place at the same time to have anything in common, and clearly this man had nothing in common with Enjolras. Not if he could have lived through that and not felt the energy charging it. A rebuttal sat palpably in his throat – an attempt to make this man understand that change was necessary and it was _their_ responsibilities to help guide that change – but his frustration at his flippancy and the sting of the stitches on his head caught up and tangled the words before he could voice them.

Instead he just spit out, “How can you so _casual_? People _died_ and you're treating the cause they fought for like a joke.”

“Believe me, Apollo, I know people died.”

“ _Stop calling me that._ ”

The man stared down at Enjolras – which didn't make much sense, since Enjolras was comfortably taller than him, but he had deep, shadowed, tired eyes and a contrary expression that gave the impression that he at best humouring you – and feigned a wounded look.

“Then maybe you should tell me your name,” he suggested. Then his expression changed again, turning to something that he probably thought was rakish but came across as lewd. “Or I'll accept your number as well.”

Enjolras huffed and thought briefly of just turning heel and marching back to his room to wait for Combeferre to take him home tomorrow morning, but that would be running and something kept him rooted.

“It's Enjolras.”

“How appropriate,” the man muttered. “No number?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

“What about yours?”

“My what? Number? If you were just playing had to get, Apollo...”

“Your _name_ ,” Enjolras snapped, getting exasperated.

“Oh.” The man looked entirely too amused about being asked for something as simple as his name, but maybe he was just enjoying riling Enjolras up. “You'd be amazed how long it's been since anyone asked me that.” He paused a moment and scratched the stubble on his cheek, as if giving the question some genuine thought. “Grantaire,” he finally said. “Call me Grantaire, Enjolras.”

“Well, why were you at a protest if you don't actually believe in what we're fighting for? Why _stay_?” Enjolras demanded.

At that it was like all the mirth in Grantaire was flushed out and instead his face twisted into something ugly – still amused but as if the amusement was a thin film spread over something darker, more despondent.

“Same reason I'm here, I supposed. Nothing really changes and the ever fickle Lady of Fate continues to cheerfully kick you in the teeth and drag you about by the ear no matter what you might like. I was there because there was no where else for me to be, and I'm here for the same reason. People don't change, and so neither do I.”

“That's a terrible attitude.”

“Oh, so I take it you're so familiar with people then?” Grantaire asked with that biting amusement. “You think you know them better than me?”

“I know people change all the time,” Enjolras said. “People constantly change, no one stays the same. Our understanding and our beliefs evolve and it's our job to become the best possible version of ourselves. And as long as people keep changing, the world keeps changing.”

“You're fighting the greedy, unfeeling rich, aren't you?” said Grantaire, though now there was a note creeping into his voice that was more tired than anything. “So what? Do you think you're the first? At any point in history this exact same battle has been carried out, but it doesn't change. Everyone from the rich down to the poorest of the poor keep on fussing to be that little bit better than their neighbour. At the end of the day, people remain greedy and selfish at their core. Oh sure, there always remains a few people who are willing to kick up a fuss, and then if the fuss is big enough some lip service is done to change. In the end though you're right back where you started and the idiot that wanted to make that fuss is dead if he's lucky, forgotten and irrelevant if he's not.”

“Things do change,” Enjolras insisted, not backing down. Grantaire's gaze trailed low, miserable, but as it flickered back up Enjolras resolutely locked eyes with him. “Come to one of our meetings. I'm in a group that focuses on social justice and charity work in the community, we're called Les Amis de l'ABC. Come and I will _prove_ to you that we are able to make a difference.”

“Trust me, Enjolras, you don't want someone like me anywhere near where you are.”

“Try me.”

For a long, silent moment Grantaire just stared and stared at Enjolras, but just as he opened his mouth to respond, the moment was broken by the shrill chiming of an alarm. Grantaire's attention immediately diverted back to his watch and he cursed.

“Sorry, I've got to run, Enjolras. ...But if you give me your number, I'll text you and get the meeting info from you, how about?”

Enjolras said nothing but held his hand out for Grantaire's phone, though he glared as he did so, to let Grantaire know he wasn't impressed. Grantaire grinned ear to ear though, earlier mood clearly forgotten (Enjolras could barely keep up with them, they seemed to flip on a dime) and passed over a phone, the model several years out of date, for Enjolras to input his number into. Then, with a pleased little nod, Grantaire turned and started away down the hospital halls, to whatever appointment he was apparently late for.

Feeling strangely drained, Enjolras also turned to go back to his room, though he was briefly struck by a strange thought, a question niggling at the back of his mind as to whether or not he actually saw Grantaire open that hospital room's door before stepping out of it. The thought soon passed though when his phone chimed with an unknown number and more emoticons than were even remotely appropriate (who needed to use that many skull icons? What did it even mean?) and Enjolras found himself caught up texting Grantaire for the rest of the evening.

-

“ _Enjolras!_ ”

Enjolras started so fast that he nearly dropped the phone he'd spent the past ten minutes composing an email on as he walked down the street. He'd just been about to cross the street when a hand clamped around his arm and pulled with such force that it was almost more than his phone that was nearly flung to the pavement. It was no mystery as to who it was though, because as soon as he heard the call, he also heard the sound of an alarm that had become increasingly familiar over the past few months.

“Christ, Grantaire,” Enjolras gasped, attempting to step away and roll the shoulder that had been jarred under the assault, but Grantaire's grip was deceptively strong on his wrist.

Behind the light changed and traffic picked up – he'd missed the cross signal now and would have to wait for the next. Uncaring about his own inconvenience, cars continued to whizz by, and sirens blared as a car over shot the light; Enjolras paid it little attention, just another day in the city. What wasn't just another day in the city was Grantaire – who had proven to be frustratingly, unshakably stubborn in his cynicism – appearing to meet him in the middle of the city. Normally they were lucky if he even made it to their meetings at all. He claimed it was because he usually busy with work – something to do with delivery, Enjolras thought, but Grantaire generally had more words that sense at any given moment and liked making simple answers insufferably confusing – but he had a much better chance of turning up at the bar they were meeting at afterwards instead so Enjolras maintained a healthy skepticism in that regard. Grantaire, it turned out, drank like a fish, and Enjolras made an attempt once or twice before to comment on it, to let Grantaire know that he worried about him, but they tended to come out entirely wrong, as so many things did when he was trying to talk to Grantaire, and Grantaire's mood had instead soured all the more as he brushed aside Enjolras and all of his ideals. At the very least he got on well with the rest of Les Amis – incredibly so, actually. It had taken little time for him to make fast friends out of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, Jehan was enchanted with him, and last he'd heard from Courfeyrac he and Bahorel had even gone to the gym together. To Enjolras's exasperation, in fact, it seemed that he was the one Grantaire was most willing to heckle and harass. When he commented on this to Combeferre and Courfeyrac though, bemoaning the fact that Grantaire seemed so determined to make a mockery of him, they, like the good friends they were, had just rolled their eyes at Enjolras.

“Would it kill you to look up from your phone every once in a while?” Grantaire said. The tone was jibing, mocking, and Enjolras was preparing to snap back but Grantaire's expression threw him off; it didn't match his words. He looked... flustered. His eyes trailed past Enjolras and stared fixed on the road. Twisting his head though, Enjolras saw nothing. Certainly nothing that would be deserving of Grantaire's full attention, not when he could barely be bothered to spare Enjolras a shred of it during meetings, certainly not when his watch even now was trilling in that shrill, incessant way it had, according to no schedule that Enjolras had ever been able to discern, and Grantaire had yet to pay it enough attention to turn it off.

Enjolras didn't know what to make of Grantaire's mood, so often didn't, didn't understand when he was being irreverent and when he was being serious, when he was joking or when he was being bitter or when the lines between all of those had blurred, so instead he just told him, “Are you of all people telling me to stop and smell the roses?”

Grantaire's eyes flickered away from the road and grinned at Enjolras. Finally he silenced his watch's alarm, which beeped angrily at him as he did so. “Hey, let it never be said I'm not a hedonist. Live in the moment, drink an extra bottle, risk food poisoning on sketchy clams, who knows when you're gonna choke it.”

“Charming,” said Enjolras. “If you're only thinking about dying any day you miss how the world goes on after that. You can't keep your nose jammed inside a bottle, Grantaire, you need to turn your focus to the world and _do_ something with your life otherwise you just pace around one slab of pavement forever accomplishing nothing.”

“World, pavement, underside of a table,” said Grantaire with a shrug, “where the difference? Just try to keep an eye on traffic, Apollo.” And with that Grantaire finally ambled off, leaving Enjolras a little baffled by the entire exchange. But what else was new when it came to Grantaire, he'd been baffling Enjolras since he'd stumbled into Grantaire at that protest.

-

No matter how frustrating Grantaire was Enjolras was always a little surprised by how _enjoyable_ he could be as well. (Not that surprised, a quiet little corner of his mind would whisper. Something about Grantaire, right from that first meeting, had made him more than just another antagonistic voice. Something made Enjolras regretful every time he stepped into an ABC meeting to find his customary seat in the back corner empty.)

Lately Grantaire had taken to joining them more and more frequently for things outside their meetings. At some point, he'd become more than an acquaintance or a challenge or even a club member. Seeing him sitting on the floor at Joly's ratty coffee table arm wrestling with Bahorel drove home the fact that at this point he was very much a friend.

As Combeferre appeared in the apartment doorway, with a stack of fliers and his laptop, Enjolras turned away from the wrestling match just as Bahorel's hand hit the table with a thump and a curse.

“I swear every time I wrestle you it feel like my entire arm goes numb,” Bahorel grumbled. “Is that some sort of secret nerve pinch you learned in the Tibetan mountains or some shit? Because that's cheating.”

“You're just a sore loser,” crowed Grantaire.

“Enjolras, are you listening?” Combeferre asked, dragging Enjolras's attention that had lingered on Grantaire back to their conversation.

“Yeah, sorry, what were you saying?”

“I have all the necessary information on that upcoming protest. There's a pretty good response so far, it sounds like it will be big,” Combeferre said, passing Enjolras a flier from the stack.

It wasn't one they were personally organizing, but they were all eager to attend. The last protest had ended with the police shutting them down, Enjolras concussed and far from the only one banged up, and the news slandering the entire thing, so Enjolras couldn't help but feel like this was a redemption of sorts. A chance to make things right. Already he could feel the energy coiling hot and eager in his stomach.

“Hey Enjolras, Ferre, how do you feel about camping?” Courfeyrac called from where he was sitting on the couch.

“What?”

“Bahorel says the weather's supposed to be great this weekend and Grantaire knows a good camping spot just a couple hours away – what do you say? Two days lounging in the sun, swimming in the creek, cuddling for warmth in a small, cozy little camp...” Courfeyrac continued, smirking pointedly at Combeferre who went very red.

Enjolras made a point of not thinking to closely about what it would be like to be stuck in a small, cramped tent with Grantaire. More likely than not, it would end with the tent coming down around their ears and a lot of shouting. In the privacy of Enjolras's mind though...

Ferre coughed though, looking away from where Courf was wiggling his eyebrows and said, “It'll have to wait for another weekend. The protest is coming up and we should be getting ready.”

“What's one more protest,” said Grantaire loudly. “We can skip one, surely. It won't make a difference if we go to this one or the next one.”

Any tent-related fantasy were gone then. Enjolras scowled at Grantaire. “Those of us who're actually planning on getting some work done have a lot to do. If you want to go play in the woods, feel free.”

Soured, Grantaire slumped down on the carpet, but Combeferre started handing around fliers with the protest information on it and soon the energy in the apartment started to pick up again, even if Grantaire once more became that spot of stillness and doubt that he had been when Enjolras had first met him.

-

Grantaire didn't let this one go. Often if Grantaire was uninterested in what they were doing, he satisfied himself by making snide, disparaging remarks or rhapsodizing about the uselessness of their efforts. Something kept him coming back to the Musain though, for all Enjolras couldn't understand it. Mostly, if he wasn't distracting whoever was sitting neareset him, he sat silently, drinking and watching them speak among themselves.

He didn't generally actively work against them though. Enjolras honestly didn't think he had enough conviction to do even that most of the time. He didn't believe in Enjolras's cause, but it wasn't that he believed in any other cause either; any degree of belief seemed to be beyond him, and he simply coasted along between them on a wave of wine fumes and gallows humour. But this time he fought. Insisted. Insulted their efforts, their cause, the protest, the people who'd organized the protest. He tried to convinced others that camping would be a good break, he tried to point out that the weather was supposed to be terrible the day of the protest, he was relentless but Enjolras only got angrier.

“Grantaire. Leave.”

Grantaire stopped in the middle of his snide comment, shrinking back when the attention of the room was suddenly drawn to him.

“If you don't have a single worthwhile thing to say, then leave,” Enjolras repeated.

“Don't go to the protest,” Grantaire said. It wasn't in the same demanding, sneering tone he'd been using before. He spoke with a breathlessness, a ting of something almost like desperation in his voice.

“Why are you so insistent? If you don't care then why don't you just _leave_?”

“Maybe I do care.” Though he said it like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Please, trust me. Just... don't go to this protest. Please. Trust me.”

Enjolras stared Grantaire down and felt something, _something_ , twist in his stomach. Something that wanted him to say yes, I do, I do trust you. Something that made Enjolras want to be able to experience camping with Grantaire and sit around their friends' apartment and press up against his warm body and... other things. A lot of things that Grantaire probably had no interest in. But right now he had a week of being riled up sitting like a coiled spring in his chest, and months of being faced with endless opposition, everything wound up so tight it charged him with unstoppable momentum. This protest was important; Grantaire was one man and there would always be time to make amends, to work things out. The world couldn't wait and neither could Enjolras and neither could the coiled momentum, the annoyance in his chest.

“Leave.”

Grantaire paused for a moment, looked like he might object again, when his watch alarm went off. He took one glanced at it, down the rest of his wine, and shoved his way out of the Musain, letting the door slam loudly behind him. The atmosphere in the room was left tense in Grantaire's wake but Enjolras pressed forward, could only go forward, otherwise he would have to pay attention to the aching regret in his chest. There would be another time, he reminded himself. He would apologize next time he saw Grantaire.

-

Grantaire didn't show up for the rest of the week but Enjolras had no time to look up from protest preparation. Bahorel was talking about doing celebratory drinks after the protest so he'd make sure Grantaire was invited to that.

-

Seeing the familiar shock of black hair, it didn't make sense. He said he wouldn't be here. Grantaire caught sight of him a second later, deep, black eyes widening when the caught sight of him. His mouth opened, shouting something, but it was lost in the crowd. There were counter-protesters here this time and they were loud, matching the protesters voice for voice, shout for shout. With no where else to go in the chaos, Enjolras started pushing his way towards Grantaire, shouting out “I thought you weren't coming,” as soon as he was within hearing distance.

“I don't have a choice,” Grantaire shouted back at him, grabbing onto Enjolras's shoulders like a moor, to keep from them being separated again by the crowd. This close Enjolras could hear the alarm on Grantaire's watching going off again. “I _don't have a choice,_ Enjolras, _but you do._ Get out of here!”

“I'm not leaving now!” Enjolras screamed back. How could he keep saying that, even now? “Don't you _realize_? Don't you see how far we've come? We can't be quiet about this Grantaire, we can't slink back like last time. People will keep dying if we don't make people take notice, if we don't make a statement. Are you so incapable of believing in anything? Of living or dying? We're _alive_ tonight Grantaire, and we _will_ make a difference, we just need to stand together and stand strong–”

“You don't even understand what you're saying,” Grantaire said, that begging note creeping back into his voice. “There will be another night, but right now, please, leave, _please–_ ”

There was a shout behind them then, and Enjolras spun in time to see a mob of counter-protesters pushing through, one pointing angrily towards where Enjolras and Grantaire were wrapped up in each other, spitting furious words at them. Their sense was all but lost in the chaos, but the slurs burned in Enjolras's ears and he took a step forward, a rebuttal ready on his tongue when everything froze for a moment.

One of the counter-protesters had drawn a gun.

He heard Grantaire's scream – “ _No!_ ” – felt more than saw Grantaire trying to shove his way in front of Enjolras, and heard the retort of a gun before burning, burning, burning and falling.

-

The world swam and everything hurt; Enjolras could feel his breath gurgling in his throat but every gasp and choke and desperate suck of air left his chest screaming in pain, left him screaming wordlessly–

“No, no, no, you _asshole_ , I told you–” a different voice screamed.

Grantaire was kneeling in front of him, hands pressed against his chest (hot, slick, wet with blood) and somehow he was miraculously uninjured by the bullet that had hit Enjolras dead centre, a bullet that by all logic should have first had to have pierced Grantaire, but Enjolras was in too much pain and much, much too grateful that Grantaire was okay to consider how this could be–

He groaned pathetically as Grantaire pushed down on him. He tried to tell him to stop, just _stop –_ it hurt, it hurt so much, and Enjolras could tell that it was pointless. He could feel it. Blood spurting hot and desperate from his chest, filling him as it emptied him, and he knew enough about injuries to be sure that this wasn't something you walked off. He'd rather not be in pain. Just let Grantaire hold him. Just let Grantaire take his hand, stop pressing–

“You will _not_ die,” Grantaire snarled.

The conviction that came from those four words were more than Enjolras had ever heard come from Grantaire's lips, and it took him so much by surprise that he blinked up at the mess of black hair and tried to really focus on him past the pain. Enjolras blanched at the sight though. Something about Grantaire was... _wrong_. The usual green hoodie was gone, replaced by all black, like a cloak, but dripping around Grantaire like oil, like smoke, like a shadow, and even the strange watch was gone, replaced with an old-fashion hourglass that hovered just above his wrist, spinning and flickering and making an unearthly noise as a single grain of white sand seemed to tumble back and forth from the full bulb to the empty but never quite settling as the hourglass continued to spin. It was so mesmerizing that Enjolras felt his eyes focusing wholly on it, nearly ignoring the other hourglasses (countless, shimmering, flickering in and out of vision, constantly replaced by others of all different sizes) that floated around Grantaire's head. His head though... Enjolras couldn't ignore that. Grantaire's face was morphed, the angles wrong, the colour _wrong_ – pale but not like skin, like bone picked clean, and the dark, sunken eyes were just _holes_ , holes with a deep, burning fire somewhere within them. In that moment of horror, of realization, Enjolras became aware that more than just blood trying to ooze out of the wound and as Grantaire _pressed_ he felt it be rejected – it was like Grantaire's hands were somehow reaching into his very chest and _squeezing_ something that was desperate to break free. Enjolras cried hoarsely.

The empty, burning holes that used to be eyes turned on Enjolras and Grantaire said, in a voice that rattled all the way down to Enjolras's core, that felt like a winter wind that had creeped in through a closed window, “Enjolras, please stop fighting me. You need to trust me, Enjolras, please _just trust me_ and _breathe_.”

_How can I trust you,_ Enjolras wanted to demand. How many times had Grantaire let them down? How many meetings did Grantaire miss, how often had he disrupted meetings with his cynicism, with his drinking, how many tasks had Enjolras given him that he'd been incapable of completing, how many times had he mocked the very foundation of Enjolras's belief. He didn't even know what Grantaire _was_ in this moment, how could he trust him now?

“Please, Enjolras.” His voice, as eery and fractured as it was, sounded strangely small, so desperate. Again. It was a sound Enjolras was coming to hate in Grantaire's voice, one he wanted to wipe away.

But then one of Grantaire's hands left Enjolras's chest and just wrapped around his hand instead – warm despite how unnaturally bony it had become, and grounding, relieving. Enjolras nodded and _breathed_ past the burning.

“Breathe, Enjolras. I won't let you go. Just breathe. Breathe. Breathe...”

The colour and shape of the world around them seemed to fade, blackness creeping in, but Enjolras clung to Grantaire's hand and kept breathing until finally Grantaire too disappeared and Enjolras was alone in the darkness. He focused on a distant pressure that was still wrapped around his hand and fought to breathe through the choking darkness.

And breathe.

And breathe...

-

It was never fun to wake up in a hospital and Enjolras seemed to have been making a habit of it recently. This time was possibly even less pleasant than last time, because while the stitches hadn't been pleasant they at least hadn't felt like a house had fallen on his chest or involved tubes being shoved down his nose to help him breathe which was something he was currently experiencing.

Breathe.

Breathe.

It was like a mantra, though Enjolras found he had already lost the exact nuance of that bone-chilling voice that had commanded him to do so.

Grantaire.

Enjolras shot up as quickly as his poor, pained body would allow. Grantaire had been at that protest too, and though it had seemed hazy at the time, Enjolras _knew_ he'd been shot as well. He'd pushed himself in front of Enjolras, why had he– how could he–? He remembered Grantaire there, he remembered the horrifying appearance he'd taken on even though the details were foggy, but there had seemed to be something so final about the entire thing, like Enjolras had wound up at the precipice of a great, looming _end._ Even as he fought to get up from his hospital bed he felt certain that Grantaire would be gone. Dead or... or something else, but Enjolras had reached an _end_ and the knowledge that in that moment he'd gotten something he'd wanted so badly but had missed something so, so important was suffocating even with the tubes in his nose–

“Try not to kill yourself again, Apollo.”

Grantaire was sitting in a seat next to his bed.

Immediately Enjolras slumped back into the pillows. It felt so... wrong. Even though it was what Enjolras had been looking for, he'd never actually expected to find it. Grantaire's face looked normal again. Scruff and skin and normal if slightly sunken, dark eyes. He was wearing his baggy hoodie and had his feet, worn sneakers and all, tucked up onto the chair. He looked distinctly tired, with the circles around his eyes even more pronounced, but beyond that he was as human as he'd ever been.

And yet he wasn't. And Enjolras knew that with a certainty, like someone had pulled back a curtain and he'd seen something so undeniably real and obvious that the simple replacement of the curtain couldn't make him forget.

“What–” he tried to say but his throat was dry and it sent him into a coughing fit that made his chest feel like it was about to cave in.

Grantaire wordlessly handed him a cup of ice chips and Enjolras knew how this worked well enough at this point so he knocked a couple slivers into his hand and sucked them down.

“Do you get it now?” Grantaire asked. His voice still sounded strangely hollow but no longer otherworldly. “ _This_ is why I know things can't change, Enjolras, no matter how much you might want them to. Because I _am_ the greatest Constance in the entire damn world. No do-overs, no take-backs, no loopholes. It doesn't matter how much you fight or scream or _believe_ because in the end everyone ends up exactly where you did. Everyone ends up with me. You might fight for the poor kid that dies in the gutter, but I get him in the end. I carry each and everyone of them in turn, Enjolras. Babies, orphans, the poor, the rich, the deserving and the undeserving, the cruel, the proud, the brave, the beautiful, and the forgotten. Each and every one is the same in the end, everything gets washed away, and I am left with that. Nothing changes, Enjolras. Not worlds, not time, not people.”

If he expected to scare Enjolras off, he was going to have to do a lot better than that; rather Enjolras just clenched his jaw and stared deliberately into Death's – into _Grantaire's_ – very human eyes. “Just because _you_ might be constant doesn't mean everything is. Besides, you can't even claim to be that, can you? You're a fake.”

Grantaire _gaped_. It was such a human expression and such a relief. “I'm sorry, are the sounds of righteous fury filling your ears or did you miss the bit where I am literally the personification of death?”

“You didn't kill me though. I'm alive.” At least he was pretty certain he was alive and not currently dead in a hospital bed – the machines were beeping rhythmically after all and that was usually a good sign though it would take Combeferre to tell him more – and he would hold onto that conviction for the time. “You told me to trust in you and you saved me.”

“That was a one-off–”

“But how often do you save people?”

Grantaire said nothing.

“You changed. You did something different.”

Now Grantaire just shook his head. “I've saved people before. Not often. It's not easy, believe it or not, to keep someone alive when their body has completely failed. And it's useless anyways. People always die in the end.”

“It's useless but you did it, it must have been for something.”

“How could I deny the world such a pretty face?”

“To do this... to do this you must have felt something, Grantaire. You must have believed you were doing something important, if it's as hard as you say.”

“I believe in you.”

For a long moment both were silent, watching the other, trying to make sense of the tension that now hung in the room.

“If you've been around for so long... that means you've seen the effects of change, Grantaire,” said Enjolras slowly, gently.

“You'd be amazed how similar this 'change' looks when you're watching it from my side. Everything cycles, it just dresses itself up a little differently. Did you know I've even met someone very, very similar to you before? More than one, really, people like you always exist and they always die too young. But the 19th century, there was a... well, not a revolution, that'd be too generous. It was a miserable, failed attempt at a coup. A blood bath. A joke that history has mostly forgotten, really. He believe and he died, along with all his friends.”

“Did he change anything?” Enjolras asked.

For a moment, Grantaire hesitated, jaw clenching, before he finally answered, “No.”

“Do you really believe that?” Enjolras asked.

“You said yourself that I don't believe in anything, Enjolras. And it won't really be your problem now anymore, you won't be seeing me again until it's much, much too late.”

It took a moment for Grantaire's words to make sense amid the drugs currently being pumped through his system but as Grantaire stood up Enjolras hand shot out, grabbing onto Grantaire's hand (thick and fleshy and warm in a human way), tugging him so sharply he stumbled.

“Don't leave.”

“Enjolras. I won't be able to help you like that again. This time I was keeping an eye on you, I knew it was coming, I was prepared... next time though?”

With the hand that wasn't being held, Grantaire held out a palm and the space around it seemed to bunch and warp, twisting around itself until a single hourglass, like one of the hundreds, thousands, millions that had been swarming around Grantaire's head before, appeared floating above it. It was spiraling constantly, twitching and turning in the air like it wasn't sure what it should be doing – one moment sand flowed from one bulb, then it would twist and it would pour back into the other, maintaining a strange, lopsided equilibrium. With a wave of his hand it was gone as quickly as it had come.

“You aren't supposed to be alive right now. The world has no expectations anymore about your death. When it happens – and it will – it will be sudden. I'll have no warning.”

“What, so every time someone's kept alive when they shouldn't be–?”

“No. A doctor can save a patient that would have died... a friend can stop someone from walking out into traffic without looking,” Grantaire said pointedly with a little glower that felt like a drop or normalcy amid everything that had happen in the time since the protest, “and the time just resets itself. What I did was... different. Your time was _up_. For all intents and purpose, I refused to collect and I broke it.”

“Why did you? If people like me die all the time?”

“What do you want me to say, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, sounding exhausted. He sat heavily back down in the plastic chair, but dragged it a little closer to the bed so he could keep holding Enjolras's hand. “I've been doing this a long, long time. And sometimes I really wish people like you didn't have to die all the time. I wish just once someone like you could be right.”

And Enjolras _beamed_ at him. “That's enough, for now.”

Even though Enjolras wasn't entirely sure if Grantaire even had to breathe, he swore in that moment he saw Grantaire's chest stop moving as he stared at Enjolras, and that niggling feeling of missed opportunity and regret solidified into pure, beautiful, unstoppable _possibilities_. Enjolras was _alive_ and the world was still full of possibilities and opportunities and the ability to make changes, even if Grantaire refused to see it. He wished he could though, and that was enough.

Right now if there was one thing he wanted to change from what he'd nearly missed the opportunity for...

Enjolras tugged on Grantaire's arm, with as much strength as he could muster, until Grantaire obliged and got off his chair, coming to lean over the bed, expression human and curious and uncertain – because nothing was certain, _nothing_ , not even when you were ancient and preceded over death itself because life was never as simple as death – and Enjolras reached up his free hand that was all tangled in wires and needles, and held it to Grantaire's dark, curly hair so he could kiss him soundly.

Pulling back, Grantaire's face was flushed to his hair and his expression was startled, baffled, elated, and Enjolras felt a laugh, a delighted, shocked, human laugh because he truly hadn't been certain how Grantaire would take it and he kissed him again. And again. And again, each time with Grantaire's lips moving against his, surprised but as pleased as Enjolras felt.

“Please never tell Jehan you've kissed Death,” Grantaire said, mouth still so close to Enjolras's that he could feel the brush of Grantaire's breath. “Neither of us will ever get a moment's rest again, we'll become full time muses.”

Enjolras laughed, and kissed him once more, until the door opened and he was suddenly aware of an exhausted looking Courfeyrac shuffling into the room with a coffee, first shouting in joy at seeing Enjolras awake, and then just shouting when he realized what exactly he was seeing. Enjolras ignored it, just for this moment. He wasn't entirely sure how things would change between himself and Grantaire, just certain that in this moment things would.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There will probably be one more short chapter after this that's just Grantaire's POV during the final protest because I was thinking about it at work. I'll post when I get home and finish it


End file.
